Low Place Like Home
by ZomBrie
Summary: "When I say 'we' I speak of both Templar and Assassin. Though the two are perceived as the enemy, recall this if nothing else: the line between good and evil is thin and poorly defined. We've taken life just as easily as prolonged it. We are murderers, and they are killers. The distinction between the two is hard to find." Altair Ibn-La'Ahad x Jacqueline OC
1. Memento mori

_**Assassin's Creed**_ © **_Ubisoft Montreal_**

_**Low Place Like Home **_©** _Sneaker Pimps_**

* * *

Original Characters & _Low Place Like Home_ Fan Fiction © _**ZomBrie**_

**Low Place Like Home**

_. . . An Assassin's Creed Original Story . . ._

* * *

_Remember that you must die_

It was an unclean cut.

His shrieks of sheer agony and promises of the axe wielder's damnation were heard half way across the land. As a thick gooey substance gushed from the blow on his head, the soldiers backed away to what they deemed a safe location.

When she squinted her eyes, she could make out a pale mass of something forcing its way through the opening of the Dead Man's skull.

At the call of the Old Prince in the pretty blue tunic, the gargantuan elephant-boar-man monster – the one with the dark cloth shielding its face (and hideous yellow tusks, she was sure) from the crowd – quickly exchanged its heavy stagger for another swing of its large axe, flinging red paint as the blade came down.

Unfortunately, like the one before, there wasn't enough power behind it.

The screams increased in both volume and length, and if there was any other sound in the crowded square it was drowned by the banshee's cackle. The realization of its mistake (both of them) finally dawned, and knowing the hell it'd catch from the prettily clad man, the Demon proceeded to hack through the Dead Man's neck (and shoulders and head) until the sixth swing. By that time, the Dead Man was silent, bone and overlapping red fabric **[1]** were completely severed, and the only line that kept the Dead Man's head attached to his shoulders, the only bit of evidence that proved he too once possessed a neck, was a tiny shred of flesh.

The Demon discarded its paint-drenched axe on to the platform. Its large grimy claws embedded themselves into the Dead Man's (was he even a man anymore?) scalp, and it retracted its burly arm. The bulging iron under its skin clenched, the threads of that thin strip of flesh surrendered, and the Dead Man's head was dropped into a dirty sack unceremoniously. Red paint began to seep through the cloth, so laden with paint that it dripped on to the platform, mixing in with the Red Lake **[2]** leaking into the wood.

The Demon wiped its dripping claws on to its brown-stained pants, leaving trails of sticky crimson to dry into the material and to the collection of stains. Its hands erected above its head and ensnared the black sack between its claws. It lifted the cloth (which made her breath hitch) from its person, and it shook its head from side to side. But when its black eyes trapped her and her mother in its murderous gaze, there was no denying the recognition.

Large hands that would find purchase under her arms; thick legs that would serve as a chair with an oppressive belly that'd shake with each bellowing laugh; a long back that would help her reach the very tops of the trees; a mouth full of broken black and yellow **[3]** teeth; a heady musk of bitter metal, and a pair of unusually dark eyes glistening with familial mirth.

The Demon was no monster, nor an elephant, nor a boar, or any combination of the three. It was a man, a very large and very intimidating one, and that man wore her uncle's face.

"Now do you see?" It was the Old Prince (he had to have been one to afford such finery) that had addressed the gathering. "Treason brings naught but your demise!" Each word was decorated with a flourish of arms and deep sweeping of hands. "Allow this day to serve reminder, for there will be no mercy to give should this occur again!"

The Dead Man had spoken about assassins, she remembered that day, and how they fought for the same peace as the Knights Templar. The Old Prince was wearing glossy green when he approached the man. A one sided heated discussion erupted between the two, and the man was thrown to the ground, and once he found his knees a blade was forced into his mouth. It caressed his tongue oh so wickedly. The glossy green was stained after that, discarded, no longer a pretty emerald but an ugly brown.

That day was a Red Day too.

A cry broke out of the horde, people scattered and scrambled over each other where the gathering had been thin, and someone let loose another screech. So very high-pitched, it became apparent whom the disruption belonged to.

She remembered the woman from that day as well, dressed in light robes, and standing off to the side in paralyzing fear.

"You bastard! I will kill you with my own hands!" The woman shrieked.

With the slightest of tilts of the Old Prince's chin, the soldiers dispatched and descended the platform in two groups. As they flocked around the Dead Man's wife and seized her arms (- "I will kill you! Damn you all to Hell!" -), the scorching midday sun kissed the metal of their armour, which obscured the ever clear red cross branded on their chests. Momentary blindness accompanied with the tiny black dots, she turned herself away from the sight (and her stoic mother) to clear her vision.

White. The man's (a lack of a feminine physique made her assume) robes were a starch white, clean pristine and with barely a speck of dust. The next detail that had captured her attention was the red sash wound tightly upon his waist (_"Yet another reminder that this is a Red Day"_), and the glistening triangular emblem clipped to the cloth. The emblem was familiar to her, though she knew not how, and her eyes lingered there – probably a moment too long to be considered polite. Then there was the leather bracer clad on to his wrist, and the missing fourth finger **[4]** (_"That must have hurt terribly"). She _lifted her eyes to his face, and would not avert them due to her child-like curiosity. That didn't mean that the sight caused her heart to leap into her throat. His robes bore a hood, one which was pulled over his head and hid his face from anyone's vision. But not his golden eyes.

_What a pretty color, _she thought. She was so enraptured by his lovely hues that, naturally, she failed to notice that said hues were staring straight at her. She recalled the intensity, the over whelming sense of confidence and assurance that possessed his eyes, from somewhere distant. There was an inkling of a memory she attempted to grasp, one she knew would haunt if her if she didn't.

The golden eyes vanished, replaced with the white hood. She blinked a few times, then once more, and finally came to realize that he had turned away from her. Her own eyes followed (to the best of her young abilities) the path his took, a sudden blast of blue invading her sight.

The Golden Eyed Man pressed forward, brushing all nine (or was he missing the finger adjacent to the one gone?) fingertips against the arms of few, ghosting but never touching, blended but never a part of the crowd.

"_**They wear a thousand faces of all shapes and colours, but they have none to claim their own."**_

Words uttered by a mouth so pretty. It was a mouth she had hoped to possess as she grew older.

"_**Don robes of white for they seek to maintain what innocence is left, and red to remind them of the means for this end."**_

The Golden Eyed Man drew closer to the platform.

"_**We fight for peace, as do they. Our hands are stained, as are theirs. Our blades are no virgins, and they've danced with their tainted steel."**_

The Demon-or her uncle really-was the first to notice the iconic white robes.

"_**Though the two are perceived as the enemy, recall this if nothing else: the line between good and evil is thin and poorly defined **_[5]_**. We've taken life just as easily as prolonged it. We are murderers, and they are killers. The distinction between the two is hard to find**__**."**_

"We" meant the Knights Templar, easily recognizable by the cross-blazoned on armour and clothes. "They" meant the Assassin Order, or Brotherhood in other parts of the land. She was never told what had personified them.

Until today.

"Assassin!"

That was her first encounter with the Brotherhood.

Jacqueline was seven years old.

* * *

[1] Considering the main character is a child, I wouldn't really expect her to know what muscle actually is, let alone what it looks like.

[2] "Sea" what I did there? I think you do.

[3] It was unintentional, yet inventible. That ever-loving song…

[4] I really wonder how they managed that one. After all, there's a vein that connects directly to the heart, so you cut off that finger…Hail to cauterizing! Huzzah!

[5] Often times, depending on personal beliefs and the like, it's not. One can look at a pretty something and think "Oi! I'm not going to steal that, no matter how lovely or bad I want it. That would be wrong." But due to the AC Universe, and for the sake of the story, we'll say it is.


	2. Liberate te ex inferis

_**Author's Notes: **As you can see, my dear lovely reader, I am going through the previous chapters, aside the first one naturally, and revising parts that I find be rather repugnant. And the plan is, once I am satisfied with that, to completely redo Chapter Four, because, though I like the concept, it felt rushed. Probably because it was. Curse those bloody smoke detectors...I sincerely believe that this version is much better than the last. Of course, that could simply be a brief moment of uncharacteristic optimism on my part.  
_

* * *

_**Low Place Like Home**_

_. . . An Assassin's Creed Original Story . . ._

* * *

_Save yourself from Hell_

"_Mother, I had another dream last night."_

Echoed words so far away, from another time another place.

"_That assa…I mean, that man was in it."_

A vast canvas painted in varied shades of crimson, and a ginormous black disc hung suspended in the air.

"_Again."_

Amongst the tapered peaks of the rooftops was an intricately carved cross, swirls loops and sharp knots decorating the four expanses, and upon this emblem was a small figure perched on the top most limb, shrouded in darkness.

"_Mother, what does it mean?"_

Wind passing through fluttering feathers. A yellowed elongated beak, emitting an ear-shattering cry. And a pair of sharp sharp talons clenching and unclenching. Clenching and unclenching towards the figure.

"_Why do I see his face every time I close my eyes?"_

They jumped. Down, down, down they rapidly descended towards the ground. Air whipping through dark auburn curls, green eyes stinging with tears, the landscape melded into one as an endless stream of blurred colors and indiscernible shapes. The ground-if there was one-drew closer and closer.

"_Is this some sort of sign from God?"_ **[1]**

Hands, white as white could be, decaying flesh hanging from the bone, fingers impossibly long unfurling from the black underneath, erected towards the sky. Reaching for the figure.

"_When you're older, perhaps I'll tell you…"_

The faces soon followed suit. They too rose from the inky darkness, lacking eyes and noses and ears and mouths. Upon their foreheads red crosses were branded into the rotting flesh. Their voices gathered into a collective choir of forlorn **[2]** moans groans and screams.

"_Tell me what? Mother?"_

Into the sea of destitute faces and eager hands and blazing crosses did the figure drown. They rose from the depths abruptly, shoving and striking out at the dead souls clutching at the figure's body. The darkness that had once shrouded them was melting away, replaced with the decomposing white that slowly devoured their skin.

"_Worry not, my love."_

The lone cross in the sky hung as both a beacon of hope and omen **[3]**, but the figure looked to it for salvation regardless. They thrust their arm into air and grabbed for the icon. But it was to no avail for the dead souls intercepted and dragged the figure down.

"_Go back to sleep."_

A familiar screech. Wings soaring through the air. Talons. Golden eyes.

Jacqueline awoke with a start, a silent scream ripping from her throat. Her undeveloped chest heaved as her lungs desperately fought for every ragged breath. A violent tremor racked through her body, which made her baby teeth continuously click together. A bead of sweat rolled down the expanse of her face, and into the dip of her neck where the scarce curls clung to her damp skin.

She hazarded a glance into the darkness of her room, almost certain a dead soul or ghostly hand or a hostile eagle would be staring back, then eased herself on to her back flat. The breath she had subconsciously withheld gushed past her trembling lips.

"Again…it happened again…" She whispered.

Her small feet gingerly landed on the floor, and she wearily hoisted herself into a sitting position. Using the heels of her palms, she rubbed the sleep-and remnants of the nightmare-out her red eyes.** [4]**

"Why…?" She didn't have the answer. Her mother didn't have the answer. Her father-was it acceptable to refer to him as such?-certainly didn't. Not even the restless monsters hiding in the shadows **[5]** offered suggestions.

There was only one question she could provide an answer to, one factor that was discernible from the rest of her chaotic psyche.

Some sort of nightmare hounded her sleep, virtually every night, since that fateful Red Day a year ago. The one when she saw the assassin with gold eyes.

She spared another look around her room through her fingertips. But, as most know, when staring into the darkness for far too long the mind conjures false images. So, when little humanoid creatures began to dance around each other in circles, she decided that then was the time to go see mother.

The trek between her and her mother's room was brief, five steps really. What should've taken a mere few seconds, however, gradually turned into a minute for a noise had stopped her dead in her tracks. A low, very muffled, very faint humming from the kitchen. **[6]**

It was against her better judgment, defied all common sense, and everything in her begged her to ignore it and crawl into bed with mother. But what eight year old has the capability to dismiss their ever-growing curiosity? Jacqueline was no exception.

As she drew nearer to the kitchen, what she had thought to be soft humming became clearer.

"So, your master has finally sniffed us out?"

It was her mother. Who was she talking to?

"I knew this day would come eventually. Just not so soon."

It was not their native tongue she spoke in, but the language of the Arabs. **[7]** Which meant that the mysterious visitor was neither English or French, but a child of Eastern soil.

"We come for you and the child."

A man's voice, laden with the gentle yet prominent rolls of tongue and vague slurs **[8]** so commonly found on the lips of Arabs. **[9]** Jacqueline always found the accent to be charming, and even though this man's voice made the corners of her lips tilt upwards, it was the emotions it wrought that ceased all movement.

Confidence that border-lined arrogance, an assurance that he was not to be trifled with. It belonged to a person who demanded respect and so easily received it without hesitation.

"Al Mualim is aware of your presence here, is aware of the child's existence, and demands you to be brought to Masyaf." The man said.

She could picture her mother's thin brow narrow, her pretty mouth pulled into the slightest of sneers, and weight leant into one protruding hip.

"And upon my refusal?" That was her mother's rebellious tongue.

"Dead or alive was never specified."

"Altaïr!" Another man, though nowhere near as cynical or foreboding. "You and the boy will not be harmed, _which was direct order_, but you will come."

"Of course we shan't be harmed. We are but mere investments, tools meant to be used for his 'benevolent' cause. 'Twould be wasteful. But as a mother, my concern lies with my child, and I'd be damned if I ever allowed that monster to lay his claws on him. Tell your master he can hang himself and your misguided creed."

The pregnant silence that followed was heavy with tension, felt even from where Jacqueline hid. She lowered herself to the ground until both of her knees supported her. She bore her upper weight in to her palms, and crept forward ever so slowly. The light from the lantern was dim and barely spilled into the hall. Many could pass through without detection, so long as they remained as silent as the dead.

Considering the exchange, without discretion she (and her mother) could be.

Cautiously, one hand followed the other, a knee shuffling after its partner, and her breath ghosted passed her trembling lips. The tension, she sensed, caused her heart to beat faster, and her fear brought the image of a black moon in a red sky with a large eagle and a sea of the dead to mind. Her crawl ceased for a moment long enough to breathe the air she withheld and clear her head. No need to dwell on a horrific fantasy when reality was just as terrible.

Her mother stood before the two strangers with her thin arms crossed over her chest and one hip leaning to the side. Her brow was furrowed slightly with her lips pulled into the faintest of sneers, a lovely blank canvas to most. However, it was the daring arch to ridge and the tug to those luscious lips that revealed the challenge she posed.

Jacqueline averted her gaze away from her mother to the men across the way. And what she saw nearly made her arms collapse from shock.

Both, upon first glance, appeared to be twins with their matching robes. Starch white like the caged cooing doves she had seen in the seasonal caravans, with hoods to match. There was no denying the red sashes either, or the emblem glistening in the faint light. She certainly didn't need to count the numbers of fingers both men possessed to know the fourth one on their left hands was gone, remembered only by the smallest of nubs.

_Assassins._

"So be it."

In perfect unison, as if the act was practiced routinely, the men rotated their heads until both sets of eyes were staring directly at her. One pair glittered maliciously, and with the flicker of a dying flame, she could see the liquid gold iris.

It didn't take her much time to realize she had been spotted, and even less to register the ominous presence and cold sweat that rolled in waves down her back.

Again, the sea of decaying flesh and the hostile eagle looming overhead sprung forth.

_Run._

With one last burst of energy, the tiny flame in the lantern burned out, taking with it the remainder of light and sight.

The house was bathed in total darkness.

* * *

[1] I'll leave it up to you which deity she speaks of.

[2] Accidently wrote THEN typed "Forsworn".

[3] There be no bashing of religion-whether it be Christian or not-here. Be a bit too hypocritical if I did, and hit too close to home for me. (If you get my drift.)

[4] As in blood-shot. (I'm realizing that some may not understand what I'm saying in particular moments of my work.)

[5] I'm referring to when your mind plays tricks on you when you're sitting in a pitch-black room and you just stare. Psychological stuff and all that.

[6] I…have no idea what that area would've been called during that time.

[7] Though I despise the whole idea of political correctness, I'm not out to offend anyone, and I know not if this would be.

[8] As much as I love the accent, I wish Alex Hutchinson had kept Phil Shahbaz as Altaïr's voice actor. Gah, I love that man's voice.

[9] Seriously, I don't know if that's offensive. My apologies if it is. (No sarcasm.)


	3. Venienti occurrite morbo

_**Author's Notes: **Great googly-moogly, my hand hurts like a mother. But I am ridiculously proud of this revision, and I'd dare to say that you, my lovely readers, would agree that this was well worth the wait. Trust me, it is far better than what I initially had written. Oh, and I should mention, there are a few subtle changes I've made throughout the chapters, hopefully you'll catch them. I'm also considering delaying my Riku story and working on a Sesshoumaru (yes, Inu Yasha fan fiction) instead. Nostalgia has been a companion of mine these past few days when wonderful sharks and their adorable noses would not premiere on my screen. (Bloody Gold Rush...) So, naturally, I watched a great deal of past shows I used to enjoy, Inu Yasha being one of them. And a great little plot sprouted forth in my mind. Would anyone care to read it?  
_

_Oh yes, I would very much like to dedicate this revision to this wonderful person: Dimples1476. I will admit, seeing her review gave me the extra burst of inspiration needed. You, m'dear, are a lovely individual! _

* * *

**__****Low Place Like Home**

_. . . An Assassin's Creed Original Story . . ._

* * *

_Meet the misfortune as it comes_

Al Mualim was, by far, the most intimidating man Jacqueline had ever laid her young eyes on.

He was dark and elderly, evidenced by the heavily sun-kissed and loose skin, greatly resembling untreated leather, and a full chin of coarse gray hair.

The robes he wore differed from the ones the assassins- Altaïr and Malik, if she heard correctly-don. Flowing black, with swirling silver embroidery, overlapping linen of gray and white. He too, however, had a red sash wrapped snugly around his waist, and the triangular emblem clipped to its front.

Overlooking his thin-lipped frown and long hooked nose was a set of narrow hawk eyes. One took on a milky-white film and bore a jagged thin scar that stretched down the expanse of his right cheek **[1]**. The other was left untouched, intense and piercing when directed on her. Within the depths of the murky brown laid a story plagued with death and drenched in blood, and it was this eye that demanded fear and respect. It was a matter of fact, not debate, well known by any who crossed his path-even to a child like Jacqueline.

After a moment or two, she decided that her scuffed and raggedy shoes were far more fascinating than the chilling gaze of the Order's Grand Master. But upon the realization that this could be a sign of weakness-and in extension consequential in those cold eyes-she lifted her own.

The first was the "kinder" (albeit not by much) assassin Malik. He stood ram-rod straight with his feet planted firmly together, his arms stuck to his sides, and his eyes staring straight forward.

Next was her mother. Her back remained straight as well, and her arms never strayed too. But the woman was obviously tense. Her jaw was clenched, her hands curled into fists, and her lovely green eyes-the same ones that glittered with the slightest hints of mirth and shamed the prettiest of emeralds-were dull and glazed over, pin point straight on Al Mualim.

Timidly, Jacqueline swallowed the knot in her throat and blinked away the stinging sensation of tears. She inhaled a ragged breath, then slowly looked towards the man to her left. Altaïr.

His posture was far more relaxed than that of his "brother." A back ever so slightly slouched, and shoulders not held back so tightly, and a hip that bore much of his weight. But it was his eyes-much like his master's-that made her visibly flinch. This didn't go unnoticed by him for his glare grew deeper, more intense. Once, she had found herself frozen by the trance such pretty eyes had casted, but now they froze her in fear.

_Perhaps this is why Rob…Father hates them so, _She thought.

"Danielle." The voice startled Jacqueline for two distinct reasons. One being that it belonged to Al Mualim, who had not spoken once since the group's arrival in Masyaf. And two-

"Rashid.** [2]**" -He knew her mother's name.

For but a brief moment, his eye looked to Jacqueline, yet nothing more to succeed the action.

"This is he? The child?" Al Mualim returned his attention to her mother.

"_My child, _yes he is." Her mother said. "Though I fail to see the relevance. Why send your **dogs** to retrieve us? What purpose would we serve?"

"You have the answer."

The lone dark eye slid to the child. Why, she knew not, nor could she comprehend the implications.

Why, indeed, did this man -the Grand Master of the Assassin's Order- send his followers after them?

The grip on Jacqueline's hand constricted, which turned the flesh on the knuckles an eery combination of red and white. It was not the strength, however, that made the girl wince.

"He bears no assassin blood." Her mother's voice dropped dangerously a few octaves. "You hold no relation to him."

Jacqueline's eyes widened a smidgeon, and her jaw fell slack.

"Oh?" One of Al Mualim's silver bushy brows lifted slightly. "You are confident that this is true?"

"Come now, Rashid, you and I know full well who does."

"And you have deluded yourself into believing this?"

"Tis no delusion! _You are_ _not his father_!"**  
**

Only once in the entirety of her young life has she heard Danielle raise her voice more than the perpetually monotonous drone she spoke with.

This actually happened some time after her initial encounter with the assassin Altaïr. Rumors of sightings had spread upon the chapped lips of many an English soldier.

"_Nother one o' those heathens was skulking 'round, they_ _say._"

Danielle and Jacqueline had been summoned by the Lieutenant of the Crusader Army (a man who had called himself her father), for one reason or another she didn't care to remember, when she had stumbled upon the conversation.

"_Bloody savages, the ole lot of em. _**[3]** _Can't wait ta sink my blade inta one o em._"

She slipped away from her mother and the lieutenant Crusader and towards the two nameless faceless soldiers.

"_I've met one of them before."_

She could not see the unique shapes and traits that made their appearances discernible from the rest, but when their helmet-clad heads turned to get a look at the eaves-dropping **[4]** intruder, she could almost picture the ugly sneers.

"_Oh yea?_" One asked.

"_Mmm-hmm. And I don't think they're as savage as you say._" She (naively) responded.

"_An what makes ye say tha?_" The other.

"_I saw one kill a bad prince!_"

"_A 'bad prince?'_"

"_Now tha I think about it...tha noble Ameer_ **[5] **_was done in by one o' em a few months back._"

"_Wasn't the Lieutenant's squeeze there too?_"

"_An her brother was the headsman, righ?_"

"_Which means..._"_  
_

Immediately, their helmets snapped to attention once more.

"_You're tha brat who 'elped im escape._"

_**Behind you, assassin!**_

_**To your left!**_

_**He ran that** **way!**_

The soldiers were on their feet before she had time to inhale. One's right fist was clenched to his left side, and with the retraction came a shrill _shiiink._ She didn't need to look to know he branded a weapon.

"_Should take this blade, ram it up your hole, and-_" (she dared not to remember the word he used) **[6]** "_-you bloody!_"

"_No, cut out 'is tongue! Make sure he can't call for help._"

The next moments were a blur, though whether it was due to the speed or the paralyzing fear she did not know.

Not even the red paint -blood, she became familiar with- that oozed from their headless necks or the ferocious shaking ("_What were you thinking?!_") and furious shrieks from Danielle ("_These men know no honor!_") deterred her from her trance.

The lieutenant had lain a heavy hand upon the livid woman's shoulder after his painted blade had been slid back into its scabbard, and managed to tug the child from her desperate grasp. He had mentioned relocation and to make haste. Even if she had possessed a clear mind at the time, Jacqueline would've paid him no heed. Tis most difficult when the glazed eyes of the dead were staring back at her.

As silent as they were, with the stench of something bitter and metallic permeating through the air to accompany, not even the quietness of the lifeless could compare to the moment of here and now.

Both her mother and the Grand Master stared the other down, never wavering never submitting. Were it not such a serious situation, she might've found mirth in the image of lethal glares possessing the ability to set someone aflame.

It must've registered in the enigmatic mind of Al Mualim that this woman, Danielle Ackart, was as stubborn and unyielding as her surname implied. Twas not news to him, however; she never was one to bow to his sovereignty. It was then that he decided to make his move. He took, maybe, a step or two beyond his finely polished desk, but the power and wisdom behind his walk, the strong breath that puffed out his chest and squared his shoulders in a manner so reminiscent of a proud and regal beast from further south, was a very affective move. Not only did it make Jacqueline flinch, the bones in her mother's hand jolted as well.

"You are absolutely certain? What say you to a trial then?" He asked.

Danielle's glare hardened and darkened considerably.

"Something minor and inconsequential. A reassurance, if you will."

"The conditions?"

"There will be no outside interferences."

"If he fails?"

"The both of you will be permitted to leave Masyaf, and your existence forgotten."

If one could spontaneously end the life of another through sheer emotions and expressions, alone, on a whim, the elderly man would've surely been dead now in a manner most grisly, Jacqueline was sure.

"And if he succeeds? What then?"

A malicious glint sparked behind his eye and the blooming smile.

"He will be initiated into the Order, and you will rejoin my side."

He mother's eyes slid to the pair of her daughter's, then sealed them closed.

"What say you?"

"Tis not my decision."

The silence that followed and the curious and eager gaze of the Mentor confirmed Jacqueline's suspicions.

And nothing could've prepared her for it.

Honestly, the choice should've been rather simple and offered her no hesitation. Assassins had stolen themselves into the serenity of their humble abode, in the dead of the night no less, held a blade to the child's neck to manipulate her mother into cooperation, drug them both through the neutral lands of Kingdom without so much as a single drop of water, and threw them to the feet of their demon of a master.

Any child of eight would've blurted out their decision before remembering to breathe first!

There was three factors, however, that sealed her lips closed.

One, Al Mualim was a formidable man and a force to be reckoned with. This was supported by Danielle's reaction. The woman was as headstrong and stubborn as a juvenile steed, her tongue like a finely sharpened double-edged blade, and could wield one as if it were an extension of her arm. Needless to say, she and fear were not acquainted, and when coupled with her natural maternal instincts to protect her child, she was a ferociously commendable woman and warrior.

And she had allowed this stranger, one who apparently knew her more so than most, to dictate the conditions of their arrival, of their meeting, and in what way they would leave.

Which pulled her attention to the second factor. There was absolutely no chance of a departure that did not result in either bloodshed, death, or a macabre equation of the two. In fact, there really was no guarantee that they would be permitted to leave period. At least with the trial there was a glimmer of hope, and she was certain that she would surely fail. There was absolutely no resemblance between her and Al Mualim! (Funny thing, actually, seeing as her skin never actually darkened unless one considers the reddening of flesh accumulating into flaky peeling blisters as such.)

Then there was the nagging voice whispering into her ear from the inner machinations of her subconscious. It reminded her of white hooded figures, blade-wielding saviors, and golden-eyed eagles. Fragments, remnants, of foreboding fantasies so easily mistaken for reality. The very same ones that made her question both the reasons behind them and her fragile sanity. And that very same voice planted seeds of scrutiny and uncertainty, telling her that no, it's not the wisest decisions, no, there's a minimal chance of freedom or survival, and yes, what did she have to lose.

Still, she did not know which to choose.

"Boy, my patience wears thin."

Listen to her better judgement and sense of moral and voice of reason, or throw caution to the wind and adhere to the quiet seduction of the whispers?

_Mother certainly isn't going to decide for you._

She clenched her fists and straightened her back. She took a step out from behind Danielle and another to her front, a new found determination blossoming passion in her green eyes and igniting the rushing warmth in her blood.

Jacqueline, in a picturesque replica akin to the defiance her lovely mother displayed, had made her decision.

* * *

[1] I...cannot recall if he does, indeed, have a scar on his right eye. I cannot play through the first game on account the disc is damaged, and a particular someone has Revelations. Doesn't matter though, for I sob like a young child while playing through Old Man Altaïr's memories. Especially the last one.

[2] Tis Al Mualim's real name. Rashid ad-Din Sinan. You're welcome.

[3] It...actually made me cringe to type that. I bloody hate what had occurred through the Crusades... (No pun intended.)

[4] "I ain't been droppin' no eaves sir, honest!"

[5] Looked for a character that could've fit the description in Altaïr's younger days. Found none. So this was an irrelevant OC.

[6] Permit me, I find it rather tacky -in lack of a better word- to use such foul language in my writing. I do compromise every now and then (refer to chapter one), but there are limitations.


	4. Miseria nomine

**_Author's Notes: _**_Apologies to all for the delay! Lack of inspiration, forced writing, arguing with my pen to be creative and a genius...__**Miseria Nomine **comes from the soundtrack of BBC's Elizabeth I: The Virgin Queen, conducted by the fabulous Martin Phipps. That man is magic. I feel as though this chapter, and Jacqueline's reaction and attitude, may be a bit rushed, but I am satisfied with it. If I so choose to, in the future, I shall revise it. __  
_

* * *

**_Miseria Nomine _****__****© Martin Phipps**

**_Low Place Like Home_**

_. . . An Assassin's Creed Original Story . . ._

* * *

_Wretched by Name_

The garden was quite the sight to behold.

It separated into three levels, one lower than the precedent, and was bordered by spiraling stairwells on either side. Man-made streams flowed throughout each platform in straight lines and sharp corners, and collectively gathered into the extravagant fountain that sprouted crystal clear water. Where the ground was not paved with lightly colored stone was lush crisp grass, pillows seating scantily clad giggling women. And if they weren't sitting on cushions and partaking in fellowship and exotic fruits, they were pouring crimson-purple drink into the assassin's glistening goblets or batting their thick eyelashes at the compliments.

Considering the behavior of the robed men, this haven existed to be both tranquil and serene, where one could release all tension and forget the troubles of the world, to just simply sit, drink, and relax.

Unfortunately, the calm atmosphere could do nothing to dissuade the inner turmoil waging war inside Jacqueline's chest. The sweet perfumes and oils permeating through the air, the delicate tugs and pulls of fingertips across harp strings and the tinkling of silver bells attached to the women's wrist bands, the mountainous canvas that had encompassed the entire curving view from the fortress, and the gentle caress of cool breeze to drive the sweltering heat away…none of it dampened the struggle between her mind and her heart. Grant it, such luxuries would typically make the child stretch out and close her eyes. It was just…

_"Clear your thoughts from distractions."_

_"Open your senses."_

_"Your mind, your body, and your soul are one."_

_"Now open them."_

_"Very good. Open your eyes."_

_"Do you see the unification of the three in the people around you?"_

She did see it.

There was no way to explain how or why it happened; actually, she didn't even know _what_ it was. But when, after following Al Mualim's directions for what he dubbed as "proper meditation", she opened her eyes, everything and everyone was bathed in varying shades of sapphire. Where shadows splayed across the floors and corners were shielded from the sun there was a blue so dark it was almost black, and it seemed that the closer an object sat to her the more visible and lighter shade it was. People included, naturally, except a thin glistening sheen seemed to halo their individual silhouettes.

Apparently, according to Al Mualim, not all possessed the ability, and that for an assassin it was a requirement. **[1]** The fact that she did meant one thing: she had passed the trial.

_"I will determine under whose tutelage you shall apprentice. Until then, go and rest."_ And it was done.

The not-so Templar born and raised child was to be an assassin.

_I have failed mother. I have failed myself…_

"Who are you?"

So lost in thought was she that she did not even detect the footsteps of another approaching from behind, so, really, she couldn't be blamed for the startled yelp lodged in her throat or the sudden inclined jolt her body gave.

Standing behind her was a young boy about the age of twelve, though she could've sworn that she was staring at a much shorter and adolescent Malik. That is until she got a better look at him –much darker in skin tone, and with a thinner nose. The eyes, however, held the same weary yet trusting glint to them. Even so, the resemblance was uncanny and in now way could be mistaken.

"Who are you?" He asked again, though much more impatiently.

"I-It…It is c-customary that a person gives their name before asking for another…" Her voice cracked and faded into nothingness.

His ever-curious eyes narrowed so slightly, but not in the sense one would upon the sight of a target of disgust and hatred, the way one would when passing expired fruits and meats and decaying death.

"What garbage is that?! Are you a girl?!" He exclaimed.

Her blood ran cold and all traces of sun drained from her skin. She was meticulous to conceal her gender from all outsiders, though due to her young age this posed no challenge, she had even almost forgotten her birth name.

"No! Just raised with proper etiquette and manners, the way any Frenchman ought to be! Something you assassins apparently lack!" She bit back.

At the mention of "Frenchman", again those amber orbs narrowed. But then…

"I know who you are! The Master's son!"

_Snap_

"What is it with you people?! Must you lay claim to every ounce of flesh you see?!"

"W-wha-"

"It seems of no other way! But a year ago I witnessed the grisly bloodshed, laid by one of your own no less, of men who has done your Order no wrong, which –may I add- made matters worse for that impoverished village! None remain! Next I hear of rumors and tales regaling your noble deeds painted in red all over the lands, ending one life right after another!

What's more is that I find two of your 'brothers' within my home threatening both my mother's life and mine! And don't you dare say that they didn't, for there is no mistaking the cold touch of a blade! Last of all, your beloved master takes but one look of me and calls me his son! A man that has never been present in my life until this day!"

Her breath was heavy, all pent up anger and despair pouring through her teeth with each gush of hot air. Such behavior was out of her character, and wherein she would withdraw into herself and deny the notion to cry till she found herself alone. Like the caged timid birds in the marketplace, those gentle cooing doves recoiling away from prying fingers yet never taking the dare to nip back. But no more.

Her mind was set, and path clear.

The faint _tap_ of leather boots against stone caught both her and the boy's attention, it was, however, the scarred lip and golden eyes that told the boot's owner's identity.

"Boy, you speak as though you do not belong here." Altaïr growled.

_No more…_

"And you speak as though I do."

"Where else ought you be? Your mother is the wife of Al Mualim, has been since I can remember, and you carry his blood. Not the blood of some French Templar." He said. "And while they're fresh in mind, all of those lives we took, including that of Ameer and the headsman, bear no consequence. All of them, every man and woman alike, were Templars. Their deaths benefit the people."

_No, do not despair! No more…_

"And who are you to pass that judgment?! Are you an Angel of Death, God Himself?! What makes you think that you, or your brothers, or your master, has the right to take the life of another?!"

"We are the Assassin Order, and we protect any and every who falls prey to the Knights Templar. Something you would do well to remember should you feel the need to address your mentor like this again."

Something churned in Jacqueline's stomach. It spread throughout her chest as something lukewarm then blazing hot. Her blood pumped through her veins, her fingers curled into her palms, and her eyes stung with the promise of tears.

_No! No more tears! I am no dove!_

"Train me, build me up, mold me into your image until you are satisfied. But know this: though your teachings, all of your 'methods', I shall memorize and rise through your ranks, my mind, my body, and my soul will never adhere to your Creed. I will never be one of you!"

_I am no longer a dove. I will find my own escape. No, not a dove, but as a hawk._

She ascended the stairs, taking care to maintain distance between her and her "mentor" Altaïr, then once she was within the doorway of the fortress dared to wipe her eyes.

_But first…this dove shall shed her feathers and coo one last time…_

* * *

**[1] **I know where the Eagle Vision derives from, why people have it, and that everyone has it. I just don't think the Order knew way back yonder._  
_


	5. Uberrimae fidei

_**Author's Notes: **I am trying something a little different with this chapter, meaning I didn't write this out beforehand, so it's not the best but I do hope you all like it. I was also recently asked for some clarification regarding the relationship between Jacqueline and Altaïr. Yes, it will eventually lead into romance, but as of yet their relationship is developing. It hasn't been explicitly stated, but there is quite the age gap between them, and it would be far too awkward right now if such a thing were to occur. It will take some time, but it will happen._

* * *

_**Low Place Like Home**_

_. . . An Assassin's Creed Original Story . . ._

* * *

_Of the utmost good faith_

The shrill songs of steel clashing against steel with large arcing swipes rang throughout the fortresses' courtyard, the smallest of sparks flying between blades.

Deep baritones and heavy breaths surged through burly chests and out thin chapped lips.

Bold azure hues glinted with traces of combative aggression, transfixed on the recipient with the desire to brawl. And knowing him, he would until he collapsed from exhaustion.

Taut muscles flexed as bodies bent and contortioned around each other, and she could not help following the trails of perspiration glistening on such dark skin with her eyes.

Twas moments like these where Jacqueline wished she were not a pubescent girl. Even as Rauf, the combat instructor, ended their session and the two duelists bowed to each other, she could not help but to appreciate her companion's backside.

Kadar's blue (still a feat she found odd considering his lineage) **[1]** eyes swept across the yard until they found her, then swiftly hefted himself over the ring's wooden barricade and jogged over to where she sat. As he drew closer, again, his scintillating flesh distracted her. She gripped the white and gray robes in her hands (the very same ones that held his spicy scent) and tossed them to him.

"Have you even moved from this spot, at all?" The cloth muffled his voice as it wiped at his perspiring forehead.

"Yes." The disbelieving look she received spoke volumes. "I shifted my right leg to cross the left. And, I stopped leaning on my hands."

As was per tradition, a staring competition commenced between the two. This was often performed whenever they engaged in playful banter, which seemed to occur on a day-to-day basis. Both were competitive by nature, and neither entertained the idea of defeat, meaning these moments could/would last for quite some time. So, Jacqueline often sought underhanded methods to ensure her victory. This round was no different.

"You should stand more side face while engaging in a sword fight. You'll make a smaller target." She said, with the threat of a smirk tugging at her mouth.

And as if on cue he was caught off-guard, blinking repeatedly at such a random statement. She couldn't fend off the smile then.

"Where did this come from…?" He asked. "Another one of your old Templar lessons?"

She rolled her eyes. "No, I hardly remember those. Master Altaïr taught me. Says that it makes you faster, and it's easier to recover from an attack too."

"Allow me to follow that up with another question. How does this technique pertain to me?"

His brawny arms crossed over his (wonderfully manly) chest and his left hip bore a trifle bit more of his weight than his right. Yet it was the bulging muscle underneath the skin of his neck and stomach that briefly caught her eye.

_Focus, Jacqueline._

"Well, you _are _practicing. Might as well do it right, lest your head gets lopped off due to shameful form."

For but a second, his eyes flashed upward to a spot above her head, then immediately met hers again. "It seems as though Altaïr's teachings are absolute."

_Curious…But probably nothing._

"He certainly thinks so, the arrogant prick…"

Kadar's fingers curled into a loose fist and were raised to his mouth before his stifled chuckles could reach his lips. As his eyes glimmered with poorly contained mirth, her thin brow raised a touch more than the other. She titled her head to the side ever so slightly, and was about to question the source of his humor when she noted a difference in atmosphere.

For starters, there was the considerable contrast in light and shadow. It was midday, which meant the placement of the sun was practically perpendicular with her spot close to the stairs, which also meant that there was no shade to be had nearby. And yet, the ground around her was dimmer than the rest, same with the starch colors of her robes.

And then there was the menacing ambience boring straight through her chest.

Out of instinct, she attempted to rotate her torso to glance at the newcomer, though those same urges already told her who it was. The sudden stinging impact blossoming from the back of her skull, however, froze her where she was. With a startled yelp, her hands flew to cover the bruising bone and a hiss slithered between her lips.

"Must you always do that?!" She cried, whipping herself around to face the imposing looming form of her mentor. "Have you no other means of punishment?!"

As soon as the words flew from her mouth, she instantly regretted them for the gradual smirk that bloomed on Altaïr's scarred lips was forewarning of things to come.

"I have yet to begin. Stand." The both of them had years of experience to fall back on; she knew not to resist him and whatever doom he could conjure when that tone was used, and he knew that that very same tone almost guaranteed her submission. "In the ring position yourself."

Jacqueline dramatically hung her head before hopping on to her feet. She dragged herself to the training grounds, ignoring the sniggering of both Kadar and Rauf behind clasped hands, and hoisted herself over the barrier. Not to her surprise, Altaïr was already standing opposite her with his back straight and arms laced behind him. Discreetly, she rolled her eyes. She positioned herself so that her feet were firmly planted far apart, with knees slightly bent and her torso facing straight. Her shoulders lined parallel with her knees, and her hands pulled into tight fists.

"Oh gods…" Altaïr mumbled into his palm.

The stance was dropped.

"_What_?!" She shouted. "What could ever be wrong?!"

"Stance."

It was resumed.

"There is too much power." He stood before her with his arms crossed over his chest. Using his right foot, he kicked her left to slide it closer to its partner. She regained her posture with a heated glare his way. "You are not Templar, you are an assassin. You must have the freedom to move quickly and efficiently." He gripped her dominant arm, right, and pushed so the elbow laid more inward. "The Templars rely on brute strength, which often leaves openings for one well-placed strike." He nudged her shoulder until her back stood straighter and her torso more to the side. "These last for but a moment, and it takes a trained eye to see these, so we must depend on our speed -and patience- to find these gaps. Should we make a mistake-" It was here that he grabbed the front of her robes, brought her close to him, then roughly shoved her back until she was sprawled on the ground, all within a matter of seconds. His boot found purchase on her chest and pushed her back down. "-We need both that freedom and our training to recover.

"That is why I tell you to make yourself a smaller target, to pay attention to your surroundings. Were this real your 'head would've been lopped off.' Do you understand?"

Her mentor was haughty; over the years she's known him he grew more and more confident in his skills and natural abilities, which led to bursts of inflated ego and an obnoxiously arrogant attitude (though it was painfully and obviously justified.) And as his student, she knew just what it took to please him.

"Apparently not!" Came the boasting of one Kadar. "He could not even follow his own instructions!"

In order to pacify a conceited prick like Altaïr, one needed to swallow his/her own pride and submit to his well-earned sovereignty. It took three little words, and then she would be free from not only his boot, but also the whole humiliating situation. And yet she had difficulty doing that.

She swallowed the knot in her throat, and blocked out the laughter coming from outside of the rink. "Yes, master Altaïr."

That pleased smirk curled upon his face, and she resisted releasing the groan bubbling inside of her chest. He lifted his foot and took a few steps, allowing his pupil to stand on her own and catch her breath. She was almost ready to bolt, but then…

"Now, resume your stance. And this time, do try to stay on your feet."

* * *

A series of face-plants, dusty backs, and bruised tailbones later, and Jacqueline was dismissed from the clutches of her demonic mentor's tutelage.

"Jacque."

Or so she thought.

She wiped at her robes to rid them of the lightly colored flaky earth, keeping one keen eye on the young man in assurance that he wouldn't attack her again. His expression, though, spoke of no hostility. It was the slightest sag to his shoulders and slump to his back; the arms at his side and large rough hands that hung limply that suggested his halcyon state of mind.

Even so, Altaïr was an assassin. Her mentor of four years, naturally, but a killer nonetheless, and one could never be too weary of a man with a concealed blade attached to his wrist.

"Sir?"

"I have been assigned with a contract in Damascus." (Contract meaning assassination target.) "It will take me but a few days to complete it. Until then, you will continue training with Abbas."

"Abbas? But the man hates me! He looks at me with contempt, as if I am soiled linen! What of Malik? Malik is more than-"

"Abbas is a trusted companion. There are none more honorable than he." One of those hands, perpetually dyed a very faint red and had never quite lost the scent of bitter metal, settled heavily on her (much much smaller) shoulder. "If he was not, then I would not go to him with this. Trust me."

A gentle, almost non-existent, squeeze was administered then all physical contact was severed.

Moments like these were so very rare and few in between, where Altaïr exposed something almost too human amidst the cracks in the cold deity-like exterior. It was moments like this where she was able to look past the white robes and blood-drenched title to see the man underneath. Where she could feel the slightest hint of care and compassion.

She tentatively nodded her head with a quiet "yes sir" and then he turned away.

"Master?"

He halted in his steps.

"I…Be…"

She couldn't find the words to speak. She knew what she had wanted to say, a "be careful" or even a simple "Godspeed", but they were lost on her tongue. He inclined his neck a mere few, then answered her hesitant silence with a nod of his own. By the time Kadar approached her (with a cheeky and satisfied smile planted on his handsome face, no less), her mentor was already traversing the few steps into the fortress.

"You should stand more side face while engaging in combat, smaller target and all that. Were those not your exact words?" Kadar asked. "…Jacque?"

"Be careful…Master Altaïr."

* * *

[1] Upon closer inspection, Kadar seems to have blue eyes.


	6. Eiusdem generis

_**Author's Notes: **My apologies on the delay! It took me quite some time considering this chapter is my adaptation of The Mentor's Keeper mission in Revelations, and there were many of times when I would have to take a step back and lay down because I would become very frustrated with this part or that part. That, and I've been job hunting. (Come on, Gamestop!) You can probably guess where I took breaks and what not. But oh well. Recently reserved Assassin's Creed III, so super excited for that! (My hope is to make "sequels" to this that takes place in AC II and III.)  
_

_Now for my gratitude to the following: **ddc**, thank you so much for saying that! I was afraid that I wasn't able to get his arrogance through! Of course, it will only get progressively worse, but that's why we love him! (Well, why I love him.) **solaheartnet**, my dear, would it be strange for me to say that I love you? If so, then my apologies, but I believe that I do. Your ultra kind review made me retreat into my personal Bat Cave and weep tears of joy! **zombieatingpanda**, your assertive enthusiasm...I like it! It definitely helped motivate me, and the fact that you want to read more? I swear, I'm not worthy of all of this love! _

_As for the anonymous, yes I do see your point. Unfortunately, this chapter has to be rather angst-y on account of what happens in the video game, but I do agree that there needs to be more light hearted moments. Thank you for your advice! I will definitely consider this!_

_To those who followed and favored: Yeah, I can't forget you lot either! Much love is headed your way!_

* * *

_**Low Place Like Home**_

_. . . An Assassin's Creed Original Story . . ._

* * *

_Of the Same Kind_

_Something is amiss…_

Looming towers made of wooden beams and overlaying stone, with the occasional winged predator circling above, dotted the earth along the path. When passing these tall structures, one must practice patience, be most attentive, and remain ever vigilant. Pace too fast, a step out of place, wandering eyes, or even an exhale that is far too heavy could summon a thick curtain of arrows to rain down upon your head. And within that pocket of time, where the whistles of feathered fletching soared through the air and blades were torn from their scabbards with shrill shrieks, that the universal question "fight or flight" must be answered. In such moments, fleeting hesitation, the simplest of mistakes, could lead to your blood staining the white sand below.

This was why he traversed the path at a pace that would shame the shelled worms. He was eager to return to the fortress, no doubt; a hot bath, some salted meat, perhaps even the indulgence of beautiful women and spiced wine, and his cushioned bed sounded most appealing. Of course, there were the official nuisances he had to deal with first: report to Al Mualim on his success (and leave out the minor detail where the target almost escaped due to the iron grip of beggars), and then dismiss Abbas from his temporary role as mentor. Still, he was read to return home.

But as the flags hanging from the towers bled from a faint red into a deeper and richer shade, and the moon and star was traded in for a triangular form instead, he yielded his steed to a near-stop.

_It is quiet…_

It was always quiet when he passed through here, save for the suspicious murmurs and skeptical whispers, and the hushed snorts of the horses nearby. (Though they didn't announce it to the world who they were, assassins made no effort to conceal their identity either, so any armed man in white had potential to be a threat.)

_No…it is not quiet._

The world was encompassed in shades of blue, and as he scanned the area for any signs of life, his suspicions were gradually confirmed.

_It is silent._

* * *

There was no time to dismount, if the tall tale sounds of swords biting and smells of death were anything to go by, and seeing as how there were no guards or soldiers to stop him, he raced through the gates on the back of his horse with his blade erected over his head.

Corpses were strewn across the ground, their bodies decorated by the deep slashes and gashes and pools of blood. Peasant men ran from the openness of the road (which risked a blade through the chest) to the confinements of their abodes (which also risked a blade through the chest if found and cornered.) Women huddled into impenetrable groups around children –related or not- and traveled through the village seeking either escape or salvation.

As an assassin it was his sworn duty to protect the people, the deprecated, the abused and damaged, and the innocents that sought refuge from all oppression. But as he glanced the battle (more like slaughter) field in a rushed effort to assess the situation, his eyes were inexplicably drawn to red.

Amongst the carnage and gore, he saw many of his brothers engaged in combat with men clad in chainmail and white tunics so very much like his own. The distinction? It was the scarlet cross emblazoned on their chests.

Templars had invaded Masyaf.

Twas random for out of all the bodies wielding blades, it was a triad of soldiers that drew his gaze. An assassin –one who's name escaped him and face he barely knew- and two Templars danced with their finely forged steel around each other, and though the nameless assassin bore no grey it was clear that the unbalanced odds would soon overwhelm him.

His heels dug into the sides of the steed, and as the animal's hooves thrashed at the ground he rose his weapon of choice into the air. It was perfect; the positioning of one Templar was ideal for the attack. His head rolled off of his shoulders and into the dust.

He yanked on the reigns, the horse's hide ducked downwards, and the large powerful beast came to a dragging stop. Unfortunately, by the time his feet touched the ground, his comrade collapsed on to his back clutching his bleeding heel. A quick look at the Templar told him what had just transpired. Without a second thought, his fingers delved into his leather waist belt then hooked one of the hilts of his throwing knives. It soared through the air directly towards its destination, the way a zipping angry bee might, and with a spray of blood it lodged itself between the Templar's shoulder blades. He too fell, but his eyes were glazed over with the dullness of death, his stained weapon clattering after him. He looked over his shoulders for any advancing foes, then looked down at his Creed brother.

"Are you hurt?" He asked.

"Mmm…broken foot." The felled assassin groaned.

He stretched his palm out, and the man readily accepted his offer. Nearby, a bench sat miraculously untouched, so with the injured man's arm cradled on top of his shoulders he aided him over to there.

"What is your name, brother?" The man asked.

_This fool does not know my name? It is understandable that I know not his, but __**I **__am the favored student of Al Mualim! _He thought bitterly.

"Altaïr, son of Umar."

"Umar…? Ah yes." _Of course he would recognize fathers. _"He was a fine man who lived as he died. With honor."

_And as a true hashashin, above all else. _

"Altaïr!"

The man he had known since childhood, Abbas Sofian, was running towards them, having to dodge frightened villagers and sworn enemies alike on the way, then slowed to a jog as he grew closer. Altaïr's eyes flickered to behind his friend to see if anyone had trailed after him. When his brief search harvested fruitless results, his dark brows furrowed together and a string of curses unraveled in his mind.

"We have been betrayed! The enemy has overrun the castle!"

Altaïr gently clasped the injured on the shoulder with a soft "you'll live" before standing straight once more.

"And Al Mualim? Where is he?" The Grand Master was number one priority now.

"He was inside when the crusaders broke through. We can do nothing for him now."

He looked up to the castle, noting how the battle dragged all the way from where they stood to the only home they've ever known. It would take time, no doubt, but he had to ensure his master's survival.

"Altaïr! We must fall back!"

"When I open the castle gates, flank the crusaders in the village, and drive them into the canyon."

His mind was set and ready to act.

"You do not stand a chance!"

"Abbas! No mistakes!"

With the minimal regard his friend held for their master, and due to past personal experiences, he questioned the if the man's loyalty to the Creed and Brotherhood had begun to waver once more, but –again- there were far more pressing matters. Before he took off, however, there was another question that had suddenly materialized in his mind, one that would need answers as soon as possible

_See to Al Mualim's safety, first._

Then, he was gone.

* * *

"I do not trust him."

Jacqueline didn't have an opinion (without being unfair) for she didn't know him personally. And thought the Brotherhood would agree that the man was a sleazy, self-gratifying, boorish chameleon who was gifted in the art of manipulation and would use these skills to get ahead, never had she spoke two words to him. Perhaps they were biased, or maybe he really was a pig, either way she had no evidence to fall back on.

To her, Haras was just Haras.

"I never would have figured you to be a gossiping biddy, Kadar." She chuckled.

"It is not only rumors!" Kadar growled. "He sneaks away into the night, and more often than not has he taken longer than needed on an assignment!"

Her eyes drifted over to the subject of their conversation. He was not dressed in the usual white robes but rather a cloak that covered him from the neck down. She would admit, such a thing was peculiar yet not enough to draw suspicion.

"May haps there is a lover he wants no one to know of?" She shrugged.

"He sympathizes with the Templar's cause." His voice was low, dark, an octave that almost made her flinch.

"Kadar, _I _sympathize with the Templars." She almost whispered. "In fact, I _empathize _with them."

She knew of the deep-rooted animosity he harbored for the crusaders, and knew of the heinous acts they committed in the name of their god, the excuses they uttered to justify themselves. Honestly, she really couldn't blame him either, after all they were the reason as to why the al-Sayf brothers were orphans. Still, she found it difficult to declare the Templars evil and assassins benevolent for anyone who believed themselves keepers of another's life _and _acted upon their judgment was just as tainted.

"…I know…" He murmured.

And it was the fact that Kadar had, at least, understood her neutral (more or less) position that had set him apart from most.

"Enough talk of such sore subjects, my friend! Let us return to the fortress with our purchases, and partake in our midday meal!" She nudged his arm with her own.

"Agreed." However, when that cheery smile stretched too far across his face, her guard was immediately up. "By the way, is it not the day Altaïr should return from Damascus?"

She groaned. "Must you remind me?"

"Perhaps Abbas will be gracious when reporting to him on your progress?"

"The man can barely stand my existence as is! No doubt he'll tell master of every little mistake I made, and blame me for my frequent absences!"

"Well, you could have denied his offer, yes?"

"Tis not the point! He will not even mention that it was his idea…in the…first…"

"Jacque?"

She didn't understand why, for there was nothing spectacular about the two, but the deep laugh from Haras' belly drew her attention to him. He was conversing with another man –one that she didn't recognize- whose face was lit up with a smirk. It was the kind that Kadar would sport when his charm would cause a girl to flush, or when he managed to outwit his brother, or when he would reign victorious in one of their many competitions. And it is not as if she caught a few words from their conversation (they were on the other side of the street, she couldn't even hear them), so really there was no need to stare at them.

That was when she saw it.

Amidst the animated twirls of his wrists and the gentle sway of the cool breeze, she could barely discern the white crosses embroidered into his dark tunic. It was the Jerusalem cross, and not only was it located on his chest, it also decorated the tails of the cloth.

She wasn't sure what the crest meant, never before seeing it on a Templar, Assassin, or Crusader, and she didn't have a reason to be weary. Yet she couldn't seem to bat down the hollow lurch in her stomach and flutter in her heart. And it only intensified when his eyes met hers, all traces of casual aloofness and mirth draining from his face when that smile disappeared.

There was a moment's pause, however brief, before Kadar grabbed her arm and led her away.

"You saw it, yes?" He whispered. "That crest?"

She nodded. "What does it mean?"

"I…do not know. I believe we should take this to Al Mualim, though."

Within a matter of minutes, the whole of the village of Masyaf had erupted into chaos. The pungent odor of rust filtered into the air as the screams of the agonized and flesh being torn into accompanied; and the cause of it all was the sudden flood of white clad soldiers swooping in from the main gates.

Of course, it took minimal record time in deciphering whom these men pledged their allegiance to.

* * *

"Now you call on your dogs to protect you? You disappoint me!"

As soon as the wooden tapered peaks dug into the ground, as soon as the gears in the gate's inner mechanism clicked, as soon as the ebony cape cascaded from Haras' shoulders disappeared from his sight, Altaïr had enacted his plan.

When he first approached the gates, he noted that the guards no longer bore gray hoods but rather sharp edged helmets.

_The Crusaders have infiltrated the castle_, he thought.

He also noticed the wooden structure built into the stone; it was located next to the gate, and ended under the Order's insignia. If everything played out in the way he was most sure they would, then that would be the route he needed to take.

And sure enough, his predictions came to pass. The traitor approached the entrance, yet never overstepping past the wall, and revealed his identity. He spoke of their demise, Altaïr branded him a traitor, and gate was lowered.

"Why not share what you have learned with everyone, like a proper Assassin!"

_Boastful. He is certain he will know victory today_.

The assassin didn't hesitate with his actions, lightly jogging to the wall and jumping to grab a ledge. He skillfully crawled his way up, and only when wood met stone did his tactics change. After a few more moments of ascension, his fingers finally grazed stone that had been flattened. With the grace of a silent predator, he hoisted himself up then located the nearest guard. Well…crusader.

"Why not share with your brothers the true extent of your ambition? Where is your sense of fraternity?"

As the crusader fell dead to his feet, he spared a glance out to the courtyard. There, right in the center for all to see, were four bodies. Unfortunately, only three drew breath, but fortunately one of the remaining was Al Mualim.

He slipped around the corner then noiselessly traveled up more steps when a high-pitched whistle reached his ears. A grunt followed soon after, then a heavy _thunk._

He didn't know the boy.

"Another good man dies, and still you say nothing! I am surprised. You taught me many things, Al Mualim, but patience was not one of them."

With the ever irritation of Haras' hostile arrogance looming over his head, he grabbed a higher ledge and thrust his hidden blade through another crusader's back.

"Speak now, or I will cut out your tongue that you may speak no more!"

There was no time left. He could no longer afford the leisure jogs or any other means of preserving strength, could no longer afford the distractions bound in chainmail and threatening words. Two men remained, and just as the wretch had stated he was not a patient man. There was no telling of Al Mualim's survival while the youth would meet his untimely demise.

It was now or never.

Up the stairs, past the guard, and towards the edge did he sprint. He did not allow himself a moment to recover from the drop, only a handful of seconds to assess his target's location. And as the man raised his crossbow so that the gleaming tip of the arrow was aimed for right between the boy's eyes, Altaïr leapt off of the building, his hidden blade ready and hungry for blood.

* * *

Sight.

Limbs so easily twisted at angles deemed too far bent, and a sword lodged into a cavity that would not cease its continuous flow.

Smell.

Rust, bitter metal, so acrid and tangy.

Sound.

Gentle whimpers, harsh pants and quiet grunts, with the echoes of shrieks and sobbing and infuriated battle cries somewhere in the distance.

Taste.

Bile. There was nothing else but bile and a digested meal.

Touch.

It was so sticky, and disturbingly warm, and there was a sort of heaviness to it.

Thought.

As silent as the grave.

Kadar hadn't much strength left, so it didn't come as a surprise when his efforts to stand on his feet almost resulted in his face meeting the dirt. Still he fought the fatigue, if only to see to the safety of the children and his companion. The duo burrowed themselves into the shadows of the houses nearby, both girls huddling into each other with their eyes fixated on the dead crusader and the young assassin before him.

She was rigid; Kadar had to watch for the weak rising and falling of her chest to ensure she was still alive. She sat with one hip to the ground, her legs tucked in at uneven angles, and her hands channeling her weight into the ground. But her eyes, much the like the children, were transfixed on the corpse.

"Jacque…?" Kadar groaned.

She leant forward and raised her hands in a manner not unlike a mindless and uncontrollable trance. Drops of bright crimson blood fell from her drenched palms and into her lap, and as her fingers numbly traced the red splashed on to her face, her eyes found the Templar once again.

"Jacque!" He shouted.

Her body lurched forward slightly, and as she blinked back the self-induced hypnosis she mumbled "I'm fine…"

His hands found purchase under her arms, and he hefted her up on to her feet, grimacing when he saw that the red puddle had painted her boots and paints an eerie brown. He lifted one limb to lay over his shoulders and one of his own supported her waist. Again, she murmured "I'm fine…"

"Good! That is good, my friend." He weakly replied. "But our mission is not yet over. We need to find these girls' parents."

She glanced at the two, then nodded once in response.

"What of your sword?" _The one impaled into the chest of a dead man._

"Ah…" _The memories are not needed._ "Leave it. With any luck…" _I will be commissioned a replacement._

However, the rest of his sentence remained unsaid. He just hoped and prayed to every deity he knew that his friend didn't understand what was left to his thoughts, why he stopped, and why he didn't speak for the rest of the trek.

"I'm fine…"

Her thoughts, on the other hand, didn't stay in that form, rather poured from her lips once every fifth step.

"I'm fine…"

_I'm fine…_

"I'm fine…"


End file.
